


Our Long Love's Day

by ssclassof56



Series: World Enough and Time [8]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 01:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9795485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: The conclusion to Illya and Faustina's rocky road to romance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal for Section7MFU's Happily Ever After Challenge

**Somewhere in France**

The two-tone signal went unnoticed amid the noise of conversation and Europop. In the corner of the small bistro, a blond man in a nondescript black suit discreetly uncapped his pen. “Kuryakin here.”

“How were things in Geneva?” Napoleon asked. “All the atoms splitting nicely?”

“Smashing nicely, though I doubt you'll appreciate the distinctions.”

“Have you heard from ‘you know who’ yet?”

“Napoleon, you can take that question and do ‘you know what’ with it.”

“Sounds like a _nyet._ And I suppose you haven’t tried to contact her either.”

“How can I? She’s still on her ‘sabbatical’ as you have so generously termed her recent truancy.”

“Hmm, tricky, I agree. How do you find a missing person? Too bad there’s not an international intelligence agency that could help you.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “You and April have insisted I be patient, and so I have been. When Faustina is ready to explain herself, she knows where to find me. I only hope her reasons are satisfactory.”

“Will this be a private conversation or do you plan to hold a tribunal?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I hope you don't imagine her crawling back with her hat in hand, tearful and penitent. That’s not the Faustina I know.”

“Do I deserve any less?

“Careful, pal. Just deserts won’t keep you warm at night.”

“Napoleon, I grow tired of this conversation. Was this the only reason you called?”

“Not the only reason. There's some nasty weather heading your way, so be careful on the roads.”

Illya looked out the plate glass windows fronting the restaurant. Large flakes continued to fall steadily, riding the wind in swirling eddies that followed customers through the doorway. “You’ve managed to call with your usual impeccable timing.”

“Snowing already?”

“Like Moscow in January. Only I’m in France, and it's almost April.”

"Will you make your flight? Mr. Waverly won't be happy if you're delayed.”

“Unless he can convince the local authorities to reopen the roads and the local mechanic to tow my car out of a snowdrift, he will have to accept it.”

“Ah-ha. I hope you found someplace warm to wait.”

“A small bistro with a view of the garage. I plan to be first in line when he reopens.”

“Well, good luck with that. And bon appétit!”

 

In the Communications Room of UNCLE’s NY headquarters, Napoleon frowned at the microphone.

April pulled the print-out with Illya’s position and handed it to him. “You didn’t tell him Faustina’s on her way to New York.”

“I thought I’d surprise him with it when he returns.”

“That’s your brilliant plan?”

He shrugged. “Maybe we could lock them up together until they work it out.”

“Or until we have one less agent.”

Napoleon acknowledged the possibility with a twist of his lips. “It’s a pity they aren’t snowed-in together.” He stepped closer and nuzzled April’s neck. “A warm fire. A bottle of wine. It did wonders for us.”

“A definite pity. Unless the trains stop running, she’ll pass right by his location.”

Napoleon grasped her face and planted a smacking kiss on her lips.

“What was that for?” April asked.

“For being as smart as you are beautiful.” He looked at the clock. “Would you start the meeting for me? I have to make one quick call.”

“Certainly, darling. Another brilliant plan?”

He pulled a little black book from inside his coat and input a number into the control panel. “I hope so. Now off with you.”

April was laughing as the door shut behind her. Napoleon took the chair and leaned back, microphone in hand. “Hello, Angèle? It's Napoleon. No, I'm not in Paris, just wishing I were there to keep you warm. Tell me, are you still working for the National Railway? Good. Remember that promise you made to me, that very passionate promise? Well, I do have something you could do for me. Considering your weather emergency, how difficult would it be to stop a train?”


	2. Chapter 2

Illya signaled the bargirl for another black coffee and brandy, wondering if it was his imagination or if her blouse really was getting lower with each refill. Outside the bistro, darkness had settled over the late afternoon. The blizzard conditions of the morning had eased into light flurries, but the wind continued to blow, barreling in great gusts down the narrow street. Through the gloom, he could just make out the garage sign, swinging wildly above windows that remained unlit.

A local couple, the only other customers, rose to retrieve their coats and exchange farewells. The bargirl extinguished the front lights, signaling her intent to close, before making her way back to Illya’s table. He decided her blouse was definitely lower. One more coffee and she would tumble out of it. The bell on the door jingled raucously as the couple plunged into the snow, and an icy draft raced between the tables. A powerful gust battered the windows, and the lights flickered.

“We’re closing early tonight,” the girl said in French. “I live just around the corner. We could keep each other warm.”

"Thank you, no,” Illya answered in the same language. “I have all the warmth I need right here.” He raised his coffee cup in salute.

The bargirl tossed her hair and shrugged, her blouse slipping perilously. “Pity. I'll be out in a few minutes if you change your mind.” She sauntered past him toward the back room, letting him reconsider her offer and her endowments in solitude.

Yet he was not alone. His hand was already on his Special when a low chuckle reached his ears. His fingers relaxed, but his jaw tightened.

“What are you doing here?” he asked grimly, pouring more brandy into his coffee.

Faustina stepped out of the shadows near the door. "Waiting out the storm, same as you. The trains have stopped.”

He raised his eyes and took her in little by little. White leather boots, hugging legs which had danced with him and run away. A black wool swing coat, hiding the body which had molded so perfectly to his. Brown curls teased and flipped, making impenetrable what should be soft and yielding. Large grey eyes set above a generous mouth, flooding his mind with memories of the feel of those lips against his own. Underpinning all of this, a curiously familiar sensation, which took him a moment to identify. A long mission, a key in a lock, an opening door, a messy apartment, a comfortable sofa. The feeling of coming home.

Disconcerted, he grumbled, “I see you've landed on your feet as usual.”

She spun around, the white fur trim of her coat whirling in an expanding circle. “Isn't it too much? April and I did some shopping. Not exactly a Paris original, but there's something about mink.”

“I wouldn't know.” These were not the words he wanted to hear. She stood before him, impenitent and unapologetic, like a fur-trimmed mannequin in a photo by Avedon. With his rumpled suit and dark-circled eyes, he looked as he felt. She apparently felt wonderful.

Faustina drew her coat open to reveal red silk lining and a matching black dress. “And to suit even your practicality, I could fit an arsenal under it.”

Certainly a fully-assembled Special. Had he been indifferent, he would have made the jest, but he was far from indifferent. To resume their familiar repartee with so much between them seemed a travesty.

Faustina let the coat fall back in place. “As we're about to be turned out into a storm, I recommend we find warmer accommodations. Unless..?”

“Unless what?”

She nodded toward the back room. “Unless you've changed your mind.”

The question hung in the air between them. Her tone was teasing, her face amused, but he sensed that beneath the coat her body was tense and poised.

“Don't be absurd,” he said, frowning balefully. Her tension eased. He drained his coffee and tossed a few francs on the table.

Faustina retrieved a red tartan travel bag from the doorway as he shrugged into his trench coat. “Where’s your luggage?”

“In the trunk of my car in a ditch.”

She stifled a laugh. “Unfortunately I didn't pack anything in your size, but I’ll see what I can do.”

A furious gust of wind staggered them as they stepped onto the sidewalk. Snow swirled through the air. Illya turned up his collar, while Faustina clamped a hand to her hood. He took her bag in one hand and linked their free arms. She began to struggle through the snowdrifts, steering him up the street, away from the main square and the hotel.

“Wrong way,” he shouted. Her response was lost in the wind. Reluctantly he followed her lead away from civilization.

They fought their way haltingly up the narrow medieval street. All about them the windows were dark or flickering with the soft glow of candles. Snow melted on Illya's neck and ran in icy rivulets under his shirt collar, making him wish he had worn a turtleneck. After what he deemed to be hours of walking, she ushered them into a gated archway. She took a small flashlight from her coat pocket and shone it up a twisting stair. The chill wind whistled down at them. She ascended the steps, and with a sigh, Illya followed.

At the topmost landing, Faustina pounded on the door. Illya set down her bag and stamped his feet. “Why are we at this garret and not the hotel? If I'm going to freeze, I'd rather do it somewhere with room service.”

“No power and plenty of stranded train passengers. This place belongs to a friend of mine.”

“Do you know someone in every town?” he asked sourly.

Faustina pretended to give the question serious consideration, which irritated him. “No, not every town.” She pounded on the door again, but there was no answer.

“I don't suppose he gave you a key?” Illya said, hoping he did not sound as jealous as he felt.

She had bent over to pick up her travel bag. At his words, her brows lifted, and she straightened up again, empty-handed. “Not exactly.”

Illya took the flashlight and crouched to peer at the handle. “Lock picks?” He held out his hand and looked up at Faustina expectantly.

"Somewhere in Copenhagen.”

“Detonator?” She shook her head and stripped a damp leather glove from her hand.

“Electric screwdriver?”

Faustina shrugged.

He grunted in exasperation. Prodding the door roughly, he judged that a well-placed kick should open it. “Stand back.”

A grinding squeal arrested him with a leg in midair. From the wall beside the door, Faustina pulled out a loose brick and extracted a key from the cavity. “Et voilà.”

She tossed him the key, which turned stiffly in the frozen lock. Faustina replaced the brick and followed him into the chill darkness of the apartment.

They stood shivering on a tiny landing. Illya heard the futile click of a light switch. “What did you expect?” he asked testily and gave a tremendous sneeze.

“Let's hope the gas bill’s been paid.” She gestured to a shallow set of stairs. “Watch your step. This place is a rabbit warren.”

The stairs led to a small living area. The flashlight picked out a wide sofa and a dilapidated gas heater lurking on the wall across from it. Faustina crossed the shadowy space and lit two oil lamps.

As she moved to draw the curtains, he put down the flashlight and worked off his trench coat. “What will your friend say if he returns and finds me here?”

Faustina held up a playbill. “ _She_ is apparently in Frankfort for a two-week engagement. You recall Martine. She helped us perfect our magic act.”

He turned aside to drape his coat over a chair, hiding his relief. “Oh, yes. ‘Alexandra and the Amazing Rasputin.’ Next time I pick the name of the act. That beard itched tremendously.”

“At least you weren't almost sawn in half.” She removed her wet coat and tossed it onto a nearby table. “I hope I didn't get snow in my Beretta.”

She turned aside to remove the pistol from her thigh holster. Illya turned as well and found he had a clear view of her in the wall mirror. She often wore a knife sheathed to her leg, and over the years he had grown accustomed to the sight. Yet now he stood transfixed, mesmerized by the slow ascent of fabric and each inch of tanned skin revealed. He saw the thin, white scar where the Thrush blade had plunged into her flesh, and his fist clenched at the memory.

She caught the movement of his reflection and raised her face to the mirror. Their gazes locked. Blue flames of desire lit his eyes, and he made no effort to douse them. His heart pounded as answering fires kindled in her own. The long, lonely weeks evaporated. They were once again in the gymnasium, never having danced, nor kissed, nor parted. Perhaps this time it would end differently. Happily.

Faustina dropped her gaze and let her dress fall back in place. “I did think Martine would be here,” she said, examining her pistol. “Maybe we should try the hotel after all.”

His heart froze, and his eyes frosted over. The wind rattled the windows. “In this weather? That would be foolish. We are highly-trained agents, particularly well-practiced in resisting mere biological urges.”

“True.” She laid the Beretta on the table. “It's fine. How's yours?” She held out her hand for his Special.

“Also fine. It is the only part of me that isn't wet.” He sneezed.

She grabbed a lamp and headed for a shadowy corner of the garret. “Come. Let's get you out of those clothes.”

Wishing she meant that differently, Illya followed. Another set of steps led to a door and a small bedroom. A massive iron-frame bed, thickly quilted and piled high with pillows, taunted him. A washstand with a stack of clean towels stood beside it. Claiming one, he shrouded his head and rubbed at his wet hair.

Faustina combed through a battered wardrobe. “There's some clothes of Remy’s in here--or is it Philippe again?” She held up a man’s sweater. “I'm afraid I haven't been keeping up with Martine’s love life.” She tossed the sweater onto the bed and plunged back in the wardrobe.

“When you're quite finished shopping in there.” A few more pieces sailed over her shoulder to land with the sweater. “Why can't women pick clothes out as fast as they take them off?” he grumbled and caught a pair of shorts in the face.

He sneezed violently. Faustina closed the wardrobe and turned to consider him, concern marking her brow. “I'll see about some hot water to soak your feet in.”

The picture of himself wrapped in a blanket like an invalid, feet soaking in a tub, was not a welcome one. It faired poorly compared with thigh holsters, iron beds, throaty chuckles, and other thoughts bouncing around his brain. “It is wet feet that got me into this state, thank you. I prefer to rely on my own powers of recovery.”

Her raised eyebrows silently indicated her opinion of his vaunted recuperative powers. “In that case, you could soak your head. It's all the same to me.” With that Parthian shot, she strolled to the door, singing cheerfully in her pleasant but unremarkable alto. The usually mournful French ballad was about a woman who strangled her lover out of frustration, and he assumed it was dedicated to him.

The door closed behind her. He stood staring at it, damp towel draped around his neck, chill air seeping into his bones, as he mentally reviewed the previous minutes. For a fraction of a second, an intense expression had lit her face, passing so quickly that he was uncertain whether it was real or imagined. Thinking back, he could remember the look on other occasions, appearing and disappearing just as fast. Her eyes had shone with it the night of the party, when she learned of Waverly’s condition and sought him in the crowd.

He pulled his wallet from his coat pocket and removed a small photograph. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, then looked at it. He saw what he desperately hoped to see. That intense expression, what Napoleon had called ‘her heart in her eyes,’ was preserved in black and white, defying her attempts to conceal it. It had flashed on her face moments ago. He had not imagined it.

“Everything I want, I have,” he whispered, listening to the woman in the next room sing blithely about where she planned to hide his body when he was dead. He squared his shoulders, blue eyes alight with determination. “Or I soon will have.”

The sartorial tastes of Remy-or-possibly-Philippe left something to be desired, but he was a man of similarly slim build, his clothes clean and blessedly dry. A small roll of the cuffs took care of their apparent difference in height. He examined his reflection in the tarnished mirror, deciding he looked like a member of a Paris street gang. It suited his mood.

He emerged from the bedroom to the acrid smell of gas and a pleasing warmth radiating from the heater. He dragged a chair closer to it and laid out his clothes to dry. His tie he draped over an exposed water pipe, so as not to risk igniting the incendiary tape. After examining his Special, he set it next to her Beretta, approving of the uniquely domestic arrangement with a crooked smile.

_“Apache!”_

At the sound of her voice, he turned, retaining his smile. Faustina had exchanged her dress for a pair of Levi’s and a v-neck sweater. He glanced to the towel wrapped around her head. “I promise not to drag you by the hair.”

“Thank you. Speaking from experience, it's not as glamorous as the dance portrays.”

He sat on the sofa, stretching his legs out along its length. “Yes, dances can be misleading,” he said over his shoulder, watching her reaction in the mirror.

Faustina had located a pair of hangers, and her coat was already suspended from the lintel. At his words, the dress slipped from her fingers. She bent to picked it up, and when she rose her features had gone from alarmed discomfort to nonchalance. The dress hung, she turned her attention to a small transistor radio and the careful selection of a station.

Having exhausted the possibilities on that side of the room, Faustina brought her boots nearer to the heater and sat next to them on the rug. She unwound the towel from her hair with a sigh. The smooth, high-crowned coif was no more. Her curls hung in damp tangles, defying her attempts to run a comb through them. “And I just had it set.”

The tilt of her head told him she was waiting for a reference to their argument. “Come here,” he said, changing tactics. He swung his feet onto the floor.

Faustina looked at him, surprised and wary.

“Sit against my legs, and I'll comb your hair.” When she hesitated, he wiggled his toes inside the pair of borrowed socks. “You'll keep my feet warm.”

She handed him the comb and leaned stiffly against his shins. With firm strokes, Illya worked to untangle her hair. A brassy, instrumental of “C’est Trop Beau” played on the radio, and he sang along softly as he combed.

_“C'est trop beau notre aventure. C'est trop beau pour etre vrai. C'est trop beau pour que ca dure plus longtemps qu'un soir d'ete.”_

She plucked nervously at the hem of her sweater. “What's the matter?” he asked. “I thought you were a fan of Tino Rossi.”

“I am,” she said, and he knew she would have tossed her hair had he not been combing it. “Tino is a very good kisser.”

She winced. “Ow. I thought you weren't going to yank me by the hair.”

“There was a knot.” He continued combing in silence.

“Anyway,” she said after a minute. “That's what his wife told me.”

Illya acknowledged the hit with a smile as he worked the final knot from her hair. The brown waves fell softly to her shoulders, resting there in loose curls. “All finished.”

“Thank you.” She ran her fingers through it. Illya watched, longing to do so himself.

“Well, aren't you going to say anything about mine?” he asked.

“What about it?”

“I had my hair trimmed.”

She twisted around to look at him and smiled mischievously. “Which one?”

He pushed her shoulder with his foot, and she toppled over, chuckling. He tossed the comb at her for good measure. Plucking it deftly from the air, she looked up at him in triumph, and for a fleeting instant, something far more intense. His breath caught in his throat.

The rumble of his stomach drew their attention. “Hungry?” she asked unnecessarily.

“Ravenous. Do you suppose there's anything to eat?”

“Let’s look.”

The kitchen was an afterthought to the left of the front landing. A tiny gas stove and a refrigerator had been squeezed in around a sink and work table. “Seduced by Americanization,” Faustina said, setting down the lamp.

“I know how it feels,” Illya murmured in her ear as he passed behind her.

“I'll try in here.” She crouched down in front of the Frigeavia. “You check the shelves.”

He peered into two containers. “I see stale bread and moldy cheese.”

“The bread can be toasted, and the mold will scrape right off.”

“How appetizing. What did you find?”

“Milk and a few ham slices.” She sniffed at the small bottle. “Still good. With a bit more foraging, I could make Croque Monsieur.”

“Well, it's not a soufflé, but I suppose it will do.”

They located the remaining ingredients. The kitchen space, however, was not meant for more than one person. To Illya’s satisfaction, they found it impossible to maneuver without continually brushing against one another.

“Pardon me,” he said, his face inches from hers, as he reached over her shoulder. “I see the mustard.”

She brandished a spatula under his nose. “Illya Kuryakin, this kitchen is not big enough for the both of us.”

“I only want to help.” His face was a picture of innocence.

“Then go set the table.”

Illya retreated into the living room. A small table hugged the wall near a pass-through into the kitchen. Faustina was framed in the opening, her attention set resolutely on cooking their dinner. Illya laid out the plates and utensils from the cupboard, then leaned on the pass-through to watch her work.

“Isn't there a magazine out there you could read?” she asked, placing their sandwiches into a hot skillet.

“Perhaps, but this is much more interesting.”

“Really.”

“Indeed. Cooking is an art and a science, and as you know, I am interested in both.”

She flipped the sandwiches, which were fragrant and well-browned. Illya inhaled extravagantly. “Ah, the Maillard Reaction, that most delicious of chemical processes.”

She handed him a bottle of wine. “Open this and leave me be, or you’ll be treated to a display of the Pemberley Reaction.”

Illya chuckled. “Just as fascinating, but rather more explosive.”

Minutes later, the Croque Monsieur emerged from the stove bubbling hot. They sat down to eat with the radio providing dinner music. After a toothpaste commercial and station identification, Dusty Springfield began singing breathlessly.

“The look of love is in your eyes, the look your heart can't disguise.”

Faustina reached for the dial. “No, leave it. I like this song,” Illya said.

“But you hated Casino Royale.”

“The one does not necessarily follow the other.”

The song continued. “I can hardly wait to hold you, feel my arms around you. How long I have waited, waited just to love you.”

Faustina drained the last of her claret and refilled her glass.

“And I did not hate the movie,” Illya said. “I had certain expectations of the film that were disappointed. I found, however, that like many things, it was better the second time around.”

Bacharach’s seductive words carried on. “Be mine, tonight. Let this be just the start of so many nights like this. Let's take a lovers' vow and seal it with a kiss.”

Illya watched over his glass as Faustina pushed her food around her plate. “Do you know what I've always wondered?” she asked with forced brightness. “Where does Napoleon get all those hats? I've never seen him go into a hat store. Last year in Morocco, he was bare-headed one moment, and the next he was wearing a fez. How does he get them?”

“He steals them.”

“What?” His answer wiped the uneasiness from her face.

“He plucks them from the heads of passers-by. They're too astonished to protest.”

“He does not.”

“I have seen him do it.”

“Liar,” she said with a grin.

He put down his utensils and looked at her intently. “‘Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love’…” His mouth broke into a smile as he finished, “to keep you guessing.”

Faustina retreated into her wine glass.

“You're blushing.”

"Nonsense. I never blush.”

“Then why are your cheeks pink?”

“It's the wine.”

“Liar,” he said, the word a caress.

The radio station’s next selection was unremarkable. Illya told her of his visit to a nuclear research facility and of the security recommendations he had made. The meal finished without incident.

As he had after many other dinners, Illya gathered the plates to do the washing up. Faustina followed him to the kitchen, grabbing a dish towel to dry. He filled the sink with soapy water and rolled up his sleeves.

“That's new.” She gestured to a puckered, red scar on his forearm. “Shrapnel?”

“Yes. My own detonation, humiliatingly enough. I misjudged the timing.” He smiled ruefully. “My mind was not on my work.”

She reached out her hand. He stopped scrubbing and held his breath. Slowly, tentatively, she ran her fingers over the scar.

“You don't mind them, do you?” he asked.

“Of course not. They're an occupational hazard.”

“Some people are repulsed by them.”

“Fools,” she said fiercely, then sighed. She withdrew her hand. “We are all fools, in our own ways. You could always get it lasered.”

He finished scrubbing a plate. “I dislike rays pointed at me, even when the good guys are doing it.”

“Dr. Franklin does marvelous work. And it doesn’t hurt…much.”

“No, thank you. Besides, you and April keep him busy enough.”

She took the plate he handed her and rubbed it dry. “He keeps us in business. You try wearing a strapless evening gown after meeting a Thrush psychopath with a penchant for hot pokers.” She set the plate and towel down beside the sink. “Remember that nasty bit of road rash. You should see it now.”

She lifted her shirt to expose her right side. The smooth skin glowed warmly in the lamplight. “Impressive work,” he said clinically. He dried a hand on the towel and reached for her.

At his touch, she squeaked and shied. “Sorry. It's the callouses,” he said.

“I know. They tickle.”

She did not back away. Hoping he conveyed scientific curiosity and not barely-restrained ardor, he ran his hand over her skin. “My compliments to Dr. Franklin.”

His fingers touched the lace edging of her bra. A tremor ran through her. She jumped back and lowered her shirt, turmoil in her eyes. “It's not you I mistrust. It's myself.”

“I trust you.”

“You shouldn't.”

Illya finished the dishes alone. The living room was empty when he returned to it, and for a fearful moment he thought she had left by another door. A cold draft penetrated his socks, making him shiver. He followed it into the shadows.

Faustina sat by the bedroom door in a small window seat, drinking claret and pondering the heavens. Starlight twinkled through a break in the clouds. The casements stood open, and the cold night air poured over her.

“You told me never to chill red wine.”

She turned from her stargazing with a wan smile. “I felt overheated.”

“You and your cold-water bathing.” He reached across and closed the windows. “Come. These low temperatures are bad for my delicate constitution.”

He took her by the elbow and steered her to the sofa. “As there is no heater in the bedroom, it’s only sensible that we both sleep here tonight.”

Illya gestured to the sofa, a well-worn settee, deep-seated and shallow-backed. Faustina opened her mouth to object.

“I have been on smaller submarines,” he assured her, gathering the throw pillows into one corner. “I'll never know you're there. Until you start snoring, that is.”

He sat down and leaned back against the pillows, legs extended. “But first we need to warm you up.” He held out an arm and held in his breath. He was not a praying man, but his heart cried out to something greater than himself to please not let her turn away.

She did not bother to conceal her warring emotions. He watched them play out on her face, while his stomach tied itself in knots. Then to his horror it growled, long and loud, as if he had not eaten in days. He closed his eyes wearily, conceding defeat.

Illya heard her laugh and felt the sofa shift under her weight. Hoping it was not just wishful thinking, he opened one eye to look. Her brown curls were drawing closer as she crawled beside him. Faustina rested her head on his shoulder, arranging her body in the remaining space so it touched his as little as possible. He lowered his arm until it rested lightly against hers.

With his other hand, he pulled a pair of books from the floor, then fished his glasses from beneath the sweater. “The choices were slim. Most of the volumes here should be wrapped in brown paper.”

“That's Remy. Anything else was probably left by the previous tenants. Martine prefers magazines.”

“Our first option is to revisit The Ladies’ Paradise.” He was not surprised when she shook her head. The angst-ridden love affair of Denise and Mouret would hold more significance now than the first time they had read it.

Zola hit the floor with a bang. “So we’re left with Sartre’s No Exit.”

She pressed her face into his chest, her shoulders shaking. He tightened his arm in concern. “Faustina, what's wrong?”

She lifted her head, giggling madly, and said, “‘Hell is other people.’”

He frowned. “I believe rather that Sartre was referring to the ontological struggle—“

Her giggling turned to outright laughter. “You're so cute. I love when you're pedantic.”

She was too close for him to clearly see her face, but the warmth of her tone encouraged him to believe that she loved more than that particular tendency. So too did her proximity, as in her amusement, she had snuggled her body against his. The combination was exhilarating. Fearful of losing the momentum, he took action.

“If there are no further comments….” He began to recite, his voice low and as soft as velvet.

“‘Had we but world enough and time,  
This coyness, lady, were no crime.  
We would sit down, and think which way  
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.’”

“Illya, that doesn't sound like Sartre,” she said, as his hand began a leisurely journey up her arm.

“‘An hundred years should go to praise  
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;  
Two hundred to adore each breast,  
But thirty thousand to the rest.’”

His hand passed by the side of her breast, his knuckles skimming the fuzz of her sweater. When she spoke, her voice was breathless. “And you're holding the book upside down.”

“‘But at my back I always hear  
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;  
And yonder all before us lie  
Deserts of vast eternity.’”

His fingers crossed her collarbone to trace the neckline of her sweater. His other hand lowered the book and his glasses onto the floor.

“Now let us ‘tear our pleasures with rough strife  
Through the iron gates of life…’”

He tipped his head until his lips were close to hers.

“‘Thus, though we cannot make our sun  
Stand still, yet we will make him run.’”

He caressed her cheek. Her lips parted. His mouth hovered a hair’s breadth from hers. Softly, gently, he murmured, “Why did you run?”

She jumped, but he was faster. He flipped his body, kneeling over her and hemming her in with his limbs. “Not this time, you don't.”

The words were mere bravado. She could throw him off with ease, and he would not fight her. She glared at him and lay still, her body stiff with resentment.

“‘I can't do this. Not again. Not with you.’” He echoed her devastating words. “What did you mean?”

She turned her head away.

He leaned closer. “Was it my kiss?” Starting at the corner of her lips, he trailed feathery kisses along her jaw. The beauty mark below her ear had enticed him for ages. He gave the spot the full attention of his mouth until her hips squirmed and her breathing quickened.

“Or perhaps my touch?” He ran his fingertips lightly down her neck to the hollow of her throat, where her pulse beat rapidly. Her skin was suffused with pink. “You're blushing again.”

“I hate you.”

He nestled his body beside hers. Grasping her chin, he turned her face toward his. “No, you don't.”

He held her gaze, watching as desire and dismay struggled to mask a more powerful emotion. She shut her eyes. “No, I don't.”

He caressed her chin, letting his thumb graze her bottom lip. “I hated you for a while. For a full week I would have cheerfully murdered you, although that may have been the fault of the vodka.”

He felt her swallow. Opening her eyes, she reached up to cup his face with her hand. He covered her fingers with his own and pressed a kiss into her palm. “I suspect there will be days when I am tempted to commit willful murder upon your person. But I know there will be others that more than make up for it.”

She jerked her hand as if burned. He clasped it tightly and brought it between them. Her fingers trembled.

"You look doubtful. No, it is more than that. You're terrified.” He kissed her knuckles and asked tenderly, _“Lyubimaya,_ what frightens you so?”

Her eyes swam with tears. She tried to speak but no words came.

“If I'd known one little endearment would render you speechless, I'd have tried it years ago.” Her eyes flashed. He chuckled. “I have missed that. I told myself I wouldn't, that life would be more peaceful. Instead it was only dull.”

He glanced ruefully at his forearm, where the scar lay hidden beneath his sleeve. “Even explosions were unsatisfying. You are much more fun to set off.”

“I tend to have a short fuse,” she reminded him with a slight smile.

“I shall become an expert in your detonation. The results are always spectacular.”

Her smile faded. “I'm short fused in many ways.”

“You mean in love affairs.”

Her crack of laugher held no humor. “Short, spectacular, and always ending in rubble.”

“‘I can't do this. Not again. Not with you.’” April had sought to explain it to him, but only now could he lay the words to rest.

Faustina nodded. “I let you light the fuse that day. Then I panicked.”

“All love affairs must end in catastrophe?”

“Like you said, it's a pattern. I grow restless. I need change. You were right about me.”

“You were right that I was an ass that day. I felt you slipping away from me, and I too panicked.”

“What did you say that wasn't true? The affair would be glorious,” she said fervently, “but not the aftermath. Not only you would be hurt. What about UNCLE? Our careers? Our friends? That's too much collateral damage.”

“So, foregone conclusion then. Illya Kuryakin, just another in a long line of infatuations doomed to disaster.” He rolled away from her. Cool air filled the space between them. “You are right. That is a club I would rather not join.”

Illya waited for her to crawl away. She remained at his side, tense and silent. He sensed the conflict waging within her, but he was an observer only, powerless to dictate the outcome. At the sound of her voice, his heart leapt to his throat.

“From the moment I met you, I wanted you. Another infatuation, I told myself. Old habits die hard. It was only odd that it should be you and not someone more my usual style.”

“Such as Napoleon,” he ventured quietly.

“Yes, or Arsene or Mark. Still, the heart wants what it wants. After all, you took an instant dislike to me. What woman could resist such a challenge?”

“The lure of the Ice Prince.”

She went on as if he had not spoken. “I wasn't looking for a lover. When I joined UNCLE, I put that past behind me. So instead I channeled my desire into winning your friendship. Familiarity would replace mystery. Infatuation would fade.”

He knew she wanted to pace. She was holding herself ruthlessly in check, allowing only a fretful twisting and untwisting of the hem of her sweater.

“And so we became friends. Great friends. Yours has been the best and most important friendship of my life.”

He wanted to still her anxious hands and speak peace over her. She was a dam about to burst, however, the words pouring out with increasing urgency. “But the wanting you never left. It was there all the time, under the surface, getting deeper and stronger. Finally I had to face facts. I was in love with you. Desperately, hopelessly in love with you.”

_“Dorogaya,”_ he murmured. He turned back to her, reaching out to gather her in his arms. She held him away, rising hysteria in her voice, as she frantically tried to explain herself.

“It was a disaster. You couldn't know. I might lose it all. Our friendship, even our assignments together. So I hid my feelings. I played a role: friend, colleague, a bit bossy, a bit flirty, but always platonic. Only I couldn't sustain it. In little ways every day, I was starting to give myself away. Loving you was tearing me apart from the inside. I was restless and dissatisfied. You saw that. How long before you saw everything?”

He shook her arm. “Faustina, hush,” he commanded.

The frenzied outpouring of words ceased. Her eyes held his. He wrapped his arms around her and smiled, his own heart in his eyes. “I do love you, but you talk too much.” Then he kissed her.

His kiss was tender and reassuring, holding the promise of thousands more to come. He roamed her face and left no part unattended. With each touch of his lips, he whispered a benediction, words of her beauty, of his affection, of his hopes for their future. Finally, he returned to her lips, and no phrase was adequate to convey what was he felt. He spoke through his kiss, willing her to understand the depth of his own desperate, hopeless love.

Illya drew back to take in the sight of her, cheeks flushed, lips reddened. Her love, so long hidden, shone forth unveiled, and the sight took his breath away. He grinned in what he suspected was a rather foolish manner.

“Don't look so pleased with yourself. Nothing has changed. I tell you, I'm no good at relationships.”

“Idiot.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “We’re in one already. We have been for years.”

She looked at him in disbelief.

“Its adorable when you look at me like I’m crazy. What do you think a friendship is? What would Mrs. Waverly say if you asked her what has sustained her marriage for 50 years?”

“Love.”

“Yes, love. You said you are in love with me. Do you think that will change?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, and his heart contracted. When she opened them again, they held a dawning hope. “No,” she said fiercely, her arms tightening around him. “I will love you until I die.”

It was impossible not to kiss her. He indulged himself briefly, then pulled back. “And I love you. But I’m too pragmatic to believe that romance and passion can sustain a couple for decades. So what else do the Waverlys have?”

She bit her lip, holding back a smile. “They have friendship.”

“And so do we. As you said, a great friendship. I did not realize how great or how important until you left.”

Her fingers clutched handfuls of his sweater, as if she were holding on for dear life. “I don't want to ever leave.”

“I won’t let you,” he promised, sealing it with a kiss. “In fact, in Ingolstein, as my wife, I could have you thrown in jail for trying. I wouldn’t recommend the accommodations. Lovely view, but quite boring.”

An expression crossed her face that he could not interpret. He asked, “We are still married in Ingolstein? I have never heard differently.”

She smiled mysteriously. “Yes, we’re still married there. Very much so.”

“You see? I told you we’ve been in a relationship for years.” The amusement on his face transformed, first to inspiration, then determination. He sat up and tugged at the ring on his hand.

“What’s wrong? What are you doing?”

“Making this official, I hope.”

She sat up next to him, watching in awe. Pink blossomed in her cheeks, and she pressed a hand against one. “But what about UNCLE and regulations?”

“To hell with regulations. Napoleon insisted that he would take care of things once we had sorted ourselves out. I see no reason to make it any easier for him.” He gave her a wink.

His father’s ring finally slid off. He held it up between his fingers. “Too big.”

He yanked a strand of yarn from his borrowed sweater. Wrapping it around the band, he tied off the yarn and examined the result. “It will do for now.”

Illya dropped to one knee in front of the sofa. Taking her left hand, he held up the ring. His voice was low, his expression earnest. “Will you, Faustina Pemberley, take this man to be your wedded husband, to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all other, keep only unto him, so long as we both shall live?”

She blinked away tears. “I will.”

He exhaled the breath he had been holding and suppressed a smile, trying to give the moment the proper gravity. “And I, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, take thee to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health; to love and to cherish, till death us do part.”

He slid the ring onto her finger. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

They gazed at the golden band. Faustina lifted her face, and her smile was one he hoped to see everyday for the rest of his life. “You may kiss the bride,” she said.

Illya stood and pulled Faustina to her feet. He kissed her long and languorously, until her knees began to buckle. Scooping her up into his arms, he carried her toward the bedroom.

“Illya, it’s freezing in there,” she protested.

He pushed the door open and carried her across the threshold. “Not for long.”


	3. Chapter 3

His communicator woke him. He opened his eyes to see sunlight stretching across the bed. The pillow beside him was empty, but comforting noises came from the other room. “Kuryakin here.”

“Illya, we’ve been waiting for you to check in,” Napoleon said. “Everything all right? I presume you weathered the storm.”

“Quite well, thank you.” He stretched and discovered several sore muscles.

“So, ah, any chance you happened to run into Faustina? Her last check-in was near your location.”

“As a matter of fact, I did. It was an amazing coincidence.”

“Good, good. Is she with you now?”

“No, she is not here now.” Illya sat up and looked around. Their clothes remained in piles on the floor. He became quite anxious to join her in the other room.

“Oh. That’s too bad. I’ve been unable to reach her this morning. Mr. Waverly wants you two back in New York pronto. He has an assignment for us.”

“Mr. Waverly will need to find two other agents for this particular mission. Faustina and I will be out of communication for the next few days at least. Goodbye, Napoleon.”

“Wait, what explanation am I supposed to give?”

“Well, if you can’t think of anything better, tell him we’re on our honeymoon.”

April's voice came over the line. “Darling, do you mean it? That’s won—”

Illya closed the communicator and stuffed it under the pillow. He pulled on the pair of pants and went in search of his bride.

Faustina stood in the kitchen, clad only in his white dress shirt. He paused for a while to appreciate the sight. Then he walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. “Good morning, wife,” he said, resting his chin on her shoulder.

She put down the egg she was about to crack and brought her hand up to his cheek. “Good afternoon, husband. Sleep well?”

“Terribly. Something kept me up all night. And now my shirt’s been stolen.”

She chuckled. “Do you mind? To be honest, I’ve wondered what it would be like to wear it.”

“To be honest, I’ve imagined your wearing it too.”

She swatted at his hand as he began to work at the buttons. “I’m making eggs. I thought you’d be hungry.”

“I’m ravenous,” he said, nibbling at her ear. “Come back to bed.”

She turned around in his embrace and kissed him.

“Something’s on your mind,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

He placed his hands on her waist and set her back. “You can’t have been married as long as we have and expect to hide anything from me. I know you too well. Now what’s wrong?”

She sighed and played with the St. Nicholas medallion that hung against his chest. “There’s something I should tell you.”

“Let me guess. You were once engaged to a Kennedy.”

“No.”

“Brezhnev?”

“Zatknis, dorogoy.” She tugged on the medallion to bring his head closer, stopping his mouth with brief kiss. Then she looked in his eyes, and her anxiety caused him to sober. “I once told you that when I ‘died,’ Rosaline’s money was transferred to my name.”

“So you did,” he said, wondering if he would ever be accustomed to the way she talked about her pre-UNCLE life.

“Until the last weeks, I’ve rarely drawn on it. It would have looked awfully suspicious if I had spent lavishly.”

“It’s suspicious enough that you cared very little about being reimbursed for expenses.”

“Only you would notice that.” She took a deep breath. His eyes were drawn to the way the white cotton fabric strained across her chest, and he struggled to remained focused on her words.

She continued, “It occurs to me that what’s mine is now yours, so you should be aware of what that entails.”

“I hope you don’t plan on discussing amortization and growth factors, because all I can think about is getting you out of my shirt.”

“Then I’ll just give you an approximate figure.” She whispered an amount in his ear. His eyes widened, and he let out a long whistle.

She bit her nail. “It’s too much, isn’t it? It will corrupt your proletarian ideals.”

“No man is free who has to work for a living,” he said dazedly.

“We can give it away, if you want. You’re more important.”

“Give it away? On the contrary, I’ve always approved of the custom of dowries.” He brought her arms up around his neck and held her close.

“Does that mean you don’t mind?”

“Well, I never expected to rate with Dun and Bradstreet, but I suppose I’ll get used to it.”

“And we really shouldn’t spend it. If you stop caring about your expense checks, people will think Thrush has gotten to both of us.”

“True. We’ll save it for our retirement. On a yacht in the Mediterranean…with a villa on the Riviera…and a chalet in St. Moritz.” He trailed kisses down her neck. “Speaking of retiring, isn’t it about time we went back to bed? You know, we’ve been married for several years now, but have only managed to spend one night together. I’d say we have some catching up to do.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she agreed, running her fingers through his hair. “Tell me again.”

He leaned his forehead against hers. _“Ya tebya lyublyu.”_

She smiled her Cheshire Cat grin, eyes shining with affection. “I love you too.”


End file.
